a cat walks into a bar
me..OW!!!
One for my Da ‘cause he loves horrible jokes like this.
(via thechocolatebrigade)
This is why we can't have nice things!
Follow the link in the title to see a shocking exhibit of the most self-entitled douchebros on Twitter. It’s horrible.
That right there? That’s why we need feminism.
Not one of these knob-heads thought for one instant about her thoughts and feelings throughout the entire ordeal. And believe me, it’s an ordeal. I should know, and so should anyone else who’s even thought they found a lump.
It’s a fucking ordeal.
Even when it turns out to be benign.
But, since this is arrogant, unthinking douchebros we’re talking about, I guess it’s my sad duty to walk them through the thought process.
Let’s wander into fantasy land and imagine that your favourite body part has made you famous. Go on. Picture yourself as a porn star. We know you do it anyway, but stop short of sticking your hand down there and going further because you’ve found a lump in an intimate place.
It’s a lump that could mean horrible, horrible things for your future career.
The good news is, it’s not noticeable unless you’re actively feeling for it and it’s not causing any pain. You have two choices: go to a doctor and get it checked out, or ignore it and hope that everything’s fine.
Now, thanks to raging societal sexism, most doctors checking out your junk are going to be men. And since I’m willing to bet dollars to doughnuts all of you douchebros are cishets, that means a certain amount of squickyness when it comes to getting your junk felt up by a total stranger. Therefore, you’re either going to waste time and money looking for a photogenic lady doctor[They’re rarer on the ground than porn would lead you to believe] to check out your famous junk, or you’re going to cringe in embarrassment and soldier on.
FYI- Ladies have the same problems with their boobs. Only they’re looking for lady doctors because they don’t want some strange man adding them to their spank file. You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t deny it.
Back to the hypothesis.
Now, assuming you’ve made the obvious [and stupid] decision to let things slide in favour of heteronormitivity; someone notices the lump in a later film. Your manager makes you go to a doctor who diagnoses you with [ta-dah!] JUNK CANCER.
Suddenly, the thing that’s made your lucrative career is now your worst enemy. The thing you love the most is going to kill you. And -worse- the doctors tell you that if you had it scoped out when only you knew how to find it… they could have stopped it in its tracks.
Doctors tell you that your only hope is a total junk removal. The whole thing. Penis, scrotum, and contents. And you have to do it RIGHT NOW or you’re going to die a slow and expensive death.
Now imagine that every single one of your fans calls you a fucking moron for making this call.
Ladies have a more… bipolar relationship with their breasts. They have no control over when they arrive, how they look, how big they get, how fast, and what people think of them as a direct result.
Big ones get in the way. Little ones get one confused with the opposite gender. And clothing shops everywhere assume that every woman on the planet has a B-cup. Fit to the torso, the chestal areas will look wrong. Fit to the chest, the rest of it looks wrong. As far as fashion is concerned, nobody can look good unless they’re that one percent [or a faction of one percent, I haven’t looked up the statistics] that the fashion industry is actually making clothes for.
And keeping the chestal areas in control is a hell of a lot harder than accidentally sitting on your own ballsack once in a while. Trust me, 90% of brassieres are concealed torture devices. And don’t get me started on that little bit of lace they put on the industrial models so they “look more feminine”. That shit turns into a rusty sawblade of doom before lunchtime.
Ladies do not feel the same way about boobs that you do. They do not feel the same way about boobs that you do about your junk. It’s love-hate all the way.
And then there’s a lump.
All of a sudden, the thing that has defined your life is at risk. The thing that defines YOU is in danger, despite how much you hate it, sometimes. Nothing in this world shy of becoming an unexpected eunuch can come near that visceral fear that comes with finding that lump.
What Angelina Jolie did with her breasts is her business. It was brave. Unbelievably brave.
And it took way more balls than you’ll ever have in a lifetime.
Still the most important video on the entire internet don’t kid yourself by thinking otherwise
with great power comes no responsibility
why is he fingering shredded tampons
What is this device, and where can I get one?
Why haven’t the Mythbusters latched onto this baby.
Yes, this video was worth 5 minutes of my life. Watch it. You will thank me.
I feel like you could dispose of a body this way with terrifying completeness.
Two kinds of people…
(via betterbemeta)
Male Privilege in the Media: Hart of Dixie
I like entertainment as much as anyone else, but I’m afraid I’m getting very jaded. Possibly more so now than ever as I round the horn into middle age and everything available just looks increasingly like More of the Same.
I objected to Big Brother when it was new. To my eyes, reality television is neither reality nor television. Just like white chocolate is neither white nor chocolate.
Anyway, onwards to my actual point.
I have, until recently, been watching a show called Hart of Dixie. I thought it was going to be a medical drama based loosely on Doc Hollywood, a fish-out-of-water movie I happened to love.
But no.
About one in five episodes was actually about anything medical. And even then, it was mostly about Zoe Hart [I can almost hear the TV exec’s crowing about how clever they are, there], the alleged lead character, being put into situations that made her look like an idiot to the highly judgemental population of the fictional town of Bluebelle.
Props where props are due, they do actually have one platonic male-female relationship. Between the token black male, Mayor Levon Hayes, and the title ditz female lead, Zoe Hart.
But as the show goes on, I am increasingly less certain that this doesn’t smack of some variety of subliminal racism.
When we’re introduced to Zoe, she’s a capable go-getter with a Plan that goes awry because she has no bedside manner [exqueeze me? Would that excuse work on a male doctor?] and thus has to take the only other job available to her in the entirety of America [wat] a GP in a pissant whitebread southern town that almost qualifies for Village that Time Forgot.
And this is where Zoe Hart begins her slow descent into Neurotic High-Maintenance Bitchville. The stereotype to end all stereotypes. Because you, apparently, aren’t a Real Woman™ unless you got yourself a MAN to lust after.
So, in order to put Zoe in her place, something that happens a lot in every single episode, she’s physically humiliated, intimidated [if the pet gator counts] talked down to, ostracised, and makes an enemy of the town’s chief allegedly-Real-Woman™ Lemon Breelan.
Lemon herself is a study in neurotic femininity, but we’re expected to let it slide because her mother left and she’s tying herself in knots to placate the eager-to-gossip-horde of Bluebelle. Her neuroses are allegedly okay because she’s at least trying to be a proper woman […as opposed to an ice-cream woman?] and keep hold of her MAN by a series of increasingly passive-aggressive ploys that, no shock to me, completely turned him off the whole deal.
This is all supposed to be because of Zoe Hart and her increasingly voluminous set of neuroses and barely concealed lust for a white cis-MAN who actually knows what a latte is in this one-horse town.
Seriously, that’s all he’s got going for him. He knows City-slicker talk and Zoe can talk to him without having to explain every third word.
Then there’s Zoe’s neighbour, who’s name I have honestly forgotten. Calling his character a cardboard cut-out would be an insult to cardboard because that stuff has actual depth. But we’re supposed to feel sorry for him because he has an alcoholic daddy who climbs up on roofs and threatens suicide about twice a season.
This guy is the epitome of white cis-male privilege. He walks around like the world owes him a favour and insults women so that they’ll have sex with him. Read that again: He insults women into having sex with him.
And if he wants another round? All he has to do is insult their technique and bam! Instant score.
I think his name is Wade… Correct me if I’m wrong. This is a man who drifts aimlessly between Nowhere and Losertown and somehow expects a mix of unmitigated misogyny, stereotypical insults, and overall I-wouldn’t-want-you-if-you-were-dipped-in-chocolate attitude to have the ladies queueing up to prove they’re decent in the sack.
And it works.
The remaining characters of Bluebelle hardly get a mention, any more. Not the Token Asian. Not the Token Black Gay [Ooo! Look! We’re progressive and edgy! Not]. And most definitely not the Token Nerd Girl who almost had herself a role model with Zoe Hart.
Nope.
We’re supposed to accept the new Token Black Female Go-Getter who only exists to contrast how needy and neurotic both Zoe and Lemon have become over the space of one whole season. Now season two is possibly going to have this new lady compete with both Zoe and Lemon for a man that at least Zoe had no previous interest in, the oh-so-wonderful mayor. Meanwhile, said female go-getter with her own cosmetics line [her sole point of interest, since it’s been mentioned three times in one episode] is going to be slowly transformed into a neurotic ball of passive-aggressive whiny need by none other than self-appointed God’s-gift-to-women, Wade.
And that’s why I’m not watching, any more.
It’s failing the Bechdel test [Put any two women together and they’re going to talk about MEN], it’s failing the Strong Character test [Are any of these people going to surprise me and do something intelligent?] and it’s failing to hold my interest because I can accurately predict an entire episode.
Once I can accurately predict an entire episode, [and not in the fun way, which generally involves predicting dead bodies, or nailing the next line] it ceases becoming enjoyable and starts getting depressing.
I do not watch TV to get depressed. I can do that just fine in Real Life.
So give me a show where a strong female lead knows what she wants and doesn’t need a MAN, and can successfully hold a platonic relationship with every gender [there’s more than two!], and IF they get involved with anyone on a sexual level, it’s a relationship where they’re a fucking TEAM… or just GTFO.
Thankyou, and good night.
Patent on breast cancer upheld
So… if you have breast cancer, do these dillholes now own your disease? Or just your boobs?
Can they claim you as a dependant, or sue you for copyright infringement?
Is there any possible way to make them responsible for your medical care?